IgMeKo: the trilogy of our gods
IgMeKo: the trilogy of our gods First part....Ig: Piggliediggs by Negit That... “The tale to end all tales…” Chapter One: Not in Kansas Jones looks up at the brilliant emerald sky and rubs his eyes. He rubs his eyes again. The sky's still green. He looks down at the ground, and the grass is blue. Not a normal blue that a person would see in grass, but the dowdy kind invented for grandma quilts. Every once in a while white puffy bumblebees float above the blue grass humming a quirky tune. Jones thinks out loud to himself, "Well at least my pajamas are the same. Now, where did my room go?" He stands up to view the surroundings and plops down from excitement. He whistles and says to himself, "Jones my boy, we are not in Kansas anymore." On the blue grass lay asleep thousands of people on cube shaped trees. While they dream, strange contraptions harvest their thoughts. A voice over a microphone chides: “''Okay everyone, there's a layover in America--turn the clocks back one hour. Indonesia, India, Algeria, Egypt prepare to jump back in the countdown of 10, 9, 8, 7, 6...”'' Instantly an old, Indonesian grocer named Ramalen who chops vagabond hands off for pilfering apples trots happily back from a sunny dream vacation and prepares to plunge back. Everyone seems used to this daily process, except Jones. Jones, puzzled, looks around for his dream catcher contraption, but he doesn't find one. He notes that fascinating blobs of light emits from his head and then they disconnect to form random abstract shapes. Suddenly the bits of blob attach to his body and he's wearing a new T shirt and faded pair of Hollister jeans. Then another extra blob of light starts to morph slowly into a shape and spin slowly around and around until....* poof*, a black horse comes into being. It nudges him to ride. Puzzled Jones reads the saddle poem on Night Mare, " The Night Mare goes no where, unless you want to go now here, up the glass forbidden stairs to see beyond the hissing stars." While riding in the sky, Jones notes that in real life, he would wave all this off as "childish nonsense" but in this world he must play the dream game, and find out why his real self and dream self have combined in consciousness. The Night Mare halts in front of a French cafe floating peacefully in the sky. Crows ominously encircle the cafes spire. Jones jumps off Night Mare, and runs into the cafe hoping to find somebody--anybody in the right mind. The honey tones of light drip lugubriously off the lampshades and fill the room; slow jazz taps its soft fingers on the window shades of the restaurant as Jones enters. One giant table and chair fills the interior of the room. He slinks up to the table. On the table sits a beautiful music box made out of the richest chocolate mahogany. Fascinated, Jones winds up the key to the music box and waits. The slow jazz music fades away as a merry tune kicks in, and the music box whirs; and the cogs start to turn as the lid opens, and the scene jumps alive. Much to Jones astonishment--there's a miniature version of him asleep on the blue grass along side a normal dream catching contraption. Suddenly, as his mini self awoke --jerkily since the cogs of the music box glitches. A dream that should have been harvested by his machine--fought against being jarred in a harvest bottle. The dream killed the dream catcher, and ripped out its wire entrails and ran back into the mind of the mini Mr. Jones. The music box replayed the entire event of Jones current affairs with the expression of waking, and his ride on the Night Mare. Then, the box's lid snaps shut. The slow jazz music resumes, and a waiter jumps out and taps Jones on the shoulder. Jones jumps. The waiter has no body--only a pair of gloved hands with the label--Waiter. The white gloves hands him a menu. Jones tries to read the menu, but the words wiggle and giggle too much; so he gives up. Then, the menu forms new words: Dear Honorable Mr. Jones, The last 10,000 years in dream world we have never had a case such as yourself except maybe in the times of Atlantis. No one has ever wanted to wake up--all the time. We have waited for this moment for thousands of years. We welcome you. Some codes you should follow before you begin this journey: ''' 1. The sky has always been green. 2. The grass has always been blue. 3. Listen to the piggliediggs. 4. Always hide your heart in a different place. Your task begins. Sincerely, Table Jones stares at the table in shock. The ...table...wrote that? Jones thought. "And what is my task?" Jones wonders as he dream jumps back into the real world. “Daddy, are you okay?” Annie asks. “Strange Dream. No problem. Tell mom to make you breakfast.” '''Chapter Two: The Sky is Always Green Jones wakes up to the sound of chanting. “Shit. I’m here again.” Jones quietly mutters. "The sky is always green." "The sky is always green." "THE SKY IS ALWAYS GREEN." Jones turns his head towards the chanting. The chanting reaches a climactic resonance--then stops. Ancient voice: "Let us meditate upon this truth." Chorus: "Oh, truth of all truths." Ancient voice: "What is this truth?" Chorus: "The sky is always green." Jones edges nearer and nearer to the chanting, and soon finds that he is standing on the rooftop of the hidden monastery. Astonishingly, Jones notes a monastery built below the ground. Putting his ear to the blue grass he hears a fairly young voice echo from below. "But elder how can we know the sky is green if we have never seen the sky? Why not blue? Like the grassroots that grows near our temples?" A great muttering and rumbling is heard from below. A middle age voice rings out, "Because that is the code, boy. Do not meddle with the laws of nature. No breakfast for such insolence. I can not believe it! My word, in all my years...tsk, tsk, tsk. We have taken a vow as monks to always believe the truth--even if we lock ourselves from the sky. This is what our god made us do to prove our faith." The younger voice trembled as it spoke in hushed tones, "What god would punish his most beloved followers to not see the true color of the beautiful sky? Why must we live as secondary animals below ground--isolated from even one another? Our food consists of beetles and worms--and water from mud. Is this anyway for a free monk to live? Isn't our diocese named the FREE monks society? Are you sure this insistence upon self-abnegation isn't imposed by some crazy man in the past?" "Such poppycock," spits the ancient voice, " Randolf make sure you teach your novice the virtue of a thousand years of mountains silence, and the obedience of mud to water." A middle aged voice spoke, "Come Little Bean, you spoke enough today, let's return to our lesson." "Recite, RECITE, RECITE..." the ancient voice spits in a sonorous tone. and the chorus thunders together in a vociferous rise: "The sky is always green. The sky is always green. The sky is always green...." Jones tries to walk away from the insane recitation but the hills rumble, and shook which made walking difficult. So, Jones crawls away from the underground monastery, and accidentally steps through the roof of the monastery. He tries to wiggle his foot out of the hole, but to no avail. Then a young voice echoes out, "Why hello, you're the biggest worm I have ever seen. Here let me help you poor thing, I'll pull you down." "NOooooo..." "Why you’re a funny worm...you talk! Oh what fun we will have, I will finally have somebody to talk about things...such as if the sky is truly green or blue." Jones feels his foot being pulled down, and fights desperately from being dragged--clinging to tree roots and grass. His nails digs deep into the dirt, and the weeds he clings to cuts his palms. "Look kid. I'm not a worm, I'm human. The thing you're holding is my foot, now let go!" "Interesting, a worm who thinks he's human. I need to treat you before I let you go, poor thing. It is the duty of a monk to take care of all living things--code 2535353.6 of "A Monks Guide" by Randolf R. Randolf." Jones felt himself pass out before Bean pulled him into darkness. (1 hr later) A strange room filled with books and powered by glowworms. A cube head with moon-shaped glasses intently stares at him. One half of the room was filled with green light from the hole in the ceiling. "So, the sky really is green." "Look kid, I need to get out." "So, that's really unfair..." The cube head named Bean floats up to the stacks of books and started chatting again: "Nowhere in scriptures does it explain why we need to be held away from the sky! This could revolutionize the free monk's entire philosophy." "Kid, I think we have bigger problems.." "Bean." "Huh?" "Bean, my name is Bean. Like Bean B. Bean is my full name, but I go with Bean for short." "Okay, Bean. Look I think the green sunlight has triggered the floor." "Fascinating...photosensitive jewels--I wonder if they bud or grow seeds..." The green sunlight had been steadily pouring into the old library, and the tiles started to glitter. Below the centuries of dust, jewels embedded into the tiles starts to shine as if on fire. They form the words, "The sky is always G..." Bean looks at the phrase, and glances at the ceiling. "This would cost me detention, but..." Bean threw up a book and shatters the rest of the ceiling. The words formed on the floor became even clearer, "The sky is always Green." One green jewel clicked, and turned three quarters around, then two quarters back. Then the rest of the jewels started clicking. The loud click sounds echoed through the dusty corridors. Jones whistled and said, "But what does it mean?" Bean responded, "...of course, it all makes sense now...the sky is always green, I always thought it was fairytale." "Bean (exasperated) can you please give me a straight answer?" "Ummm...well Wormie...let me put it this way...did you talk to a table?" (And so our journey begins.) Chapter Three: The Grass is Always Blue Time: Dreamday Wednesday: 12:45:02 p.m. Place: censored Person: Agent X Description: Agent X-the generic handsome type; blond hair and icy eyes; body posture evokes a sense of a frostbite; slicked hair; short warty fingers and big attitude. Personal information: Censored Description: Dolores: generic secretary type; brown hair, crooked nose, and bland eyes; body posture evokes a sense of a cowardly but well trained dog; wild curly hair; strong willed. Personal information: Walks her dog every Saturday at 14:30:00 “I want to know who this guy is Dolores!” thunders X "I want to know why all of Dream World is buzzing about this new hero.” “I want to know his task, and why its not listed.” “We KNOW everything, but all we can get on this guy is that he wears pin-stripped pajamas—with teddy bear prints? Absolutely pitiful. DOLORES! I’m not riddling like a sphinx either!” Dolores sighs, “Yes, X?” “Pay the bumblebees 1 cent more, to scour day and night for information. We need to keep control or chaos’s will break loose. What if dream jumps go off schedule? Try to protect this guy—all sorts of scum bags will want to make a fortune off of him like some freak show. We need to know which side he’s on, who does he work for, I WANT information Dolores, and I want it PRONTO. What does he eat, how does he snore, who's his imaginary friend, does he create abstracts upside down or square. Information. Information. Information. I want this guy wrapped around my finger. "Oh, and Dolores?" “Yes, sir.” "GET ME SOME REAL COFFEE. What is this crap I’m drinking—dog vomit? The grass is blue, isn’t it?” (Hesitation) “Yes, sir.” “Then GET ME SOME GOOD QUALITY COFFEE and find everything you can get your hands on this new hero pushover.” Secretary Dolores takes the files labeled Bean B. Bean and Jones from the pile marked TOP SECRET in big bold red letters. She whispers, “The grass is blue, but the sky is green; the two can't mix,”and dumps Agents X’s rejected coffee on both files. (10 min later) “Dolores! DOLORES! WHAT IS THIS? I CAN'T READ” Agent X's finger stabs the two stained files. “The sky is green, Sir. If you can't read, you better go back to Kindergarten to learn." “Dolores, we can’t deny the grass is blue. We need this information.” “I know sir. Might I suggest a break to Hawaii in the real world? I think you're paranoid. No use crying over split coffee…you didn’t like it. I ordered some real coffee from Coffee land. I hope you’re satisfied. “ “Fine, Dolores. But then I give the job to you to make sure the grass is blue.” “Can it be any other color, sir?” “If I claimed such, I would be in the loony. Let's monitor the South to make sure everything's under control. America is about to jump back, slightly tricky due to the fact that some people forget the one hour turn forward...or is it back. I'm getting old. Oh, and Dolores...." "Hmmm..." "Since you're so damn smart, I'm sending you to watch over the new hero." "Oh, so I'm suppose to be the femme fatal...great plan Roger." "My name is CENSORED, DOLORES!" "Oh right, end transmission." click "So you see my friends, we are up against the Northern government. I have bribed one of the bumblebee's to tape this fairly easy if you promise them equal rights opportunities, but you see we must get to Jones first. We must convert him to our side. Though we do not know why they want him, he must be valuable. "Aren’t we suppose to work with the North Government?" "Didn't you hear the damn recording? Obviously they think they have us under wraps. With this guy we could appeal to the public and win the upcoming elections...Give power back in the hands of the South Government." "Why not just wield with nuclear weapons?" "Nah, that's boring and a thing of the past. Everyone knows that it's mutually assured destruction. We must be more cunning. We must represent the people's needs in a ...better...way." "Is the sky blue?" "No." "Then obviously we must play green. No? You know my friend no one knows the origin of the code phrases or why they came into existence. We just know that the codes have a much higher meaning than before, and every group that uses it--has their own paraphrase for it. I vote that we make a dictionary of all the different meanings...so we may better appeal to the people. The sky is green after all." "Muah ha ha ha ha ..." "..." I was watching a sitcom---those shows are really funny. What? I have an evil sounding laugh. So what? "...okay, well keep it down...." "End transition ." click "Thus my friends we know that all sides are trying to get to the hero." Nairic quietly murmurs to the legions of puffy white fellow bees. "As you can see I planted a mole in the southern government and relied on their intelligence to capture information from the northern government..." "Umm...we are bee's, Nairic. We can't do things like this. We are secondary citizens." "We will use our intelligence to play both governments." "Nairic, we just want equal rights as bees, we don't want to play espionage." "Quiet Hummer, I have timed everything perfectly. We need the last chess piece--the Hero." "The Hero--is a myth. It's fairytale." whines Hummer. "We shall see..." Nairic replies. Chapter four: Listen The sun beats relentlessly down on the desert, and a pair of footsteps in the sand arch past the vanishing point; nothing lives here. "Remind me WHY are we walking in a God-forsaken desert, Bean?" "Desserts are Yummy, Jones...not god-forsaken. (Chuckle.) Well, it states in code that 'your task begins.'" "Uh-huh...and...?" "All tasks begin with a painful journey, since we didn't feel much pain in the forest, I devised a painful expedition in the desert." "Wait, I don't have to walk here right now?" "Yup. Doesn't that tickle your fancy!" Jones abruptly stops. "So, why are we here?" "To find your task." "I don't know my task." "Piggliediggs!" "Wait? What did you just say." "Look....." Bean whispers, ignoring the question, as he points ahead," I think there's someone walking towards us--on his head, walking with his hair." A man who looks a lot-like-Gandhi-from-the-real-world waves to Jones and Bean. The trio stand in the desert baking in silence for a half hour, before the Sage would speak or open his eyes. Jones whispers to Bean, "The guy's not speaking, I think we should go." Bean whispers back, "Piggliediggs! I floated this far. My air gauge is on low. We are seeking a sage, and this must BE him." The Gandhi-look-alike motions the two closer, and then smiles--a toothless smile. Bean whispers to Jones, "This MAY be the most important thing you will ever hear from the lips of someone SO WISE. Now bow and show respect. His words are like price-less jewels." Jones bows towards the sage with his hands folded. The sage seems to have a hard time moving his lips and slowly forms one word. Trying to form a motion with his mouth-- he eventually plops out a soft sound. Bean slightly embarrassed says, "Oh great sage, your wisdom is mighty; tell us something fearful and wonderful. I'm afraid we didn't catch what you said. So, if it pleases your highness, please repeat the scrupulous phrase." Bean then bows low again. The Gandhi-look-alike smiles sheepishly, trying again, and says with alacrity, "Wet." ' "..." “Could you repeat that please?" The sage, as if sensing his audiences disappointment, points to the sand and squeaks , '"Wet?" ' He points to Bean and Jones and repeats more confidently this time, '"Wet." ''' He starts pointing to everything and says, " '''Wet! (points to rocks.) '''" Wet. (Points to cow bones.) Wet! (Points to Bean's glasses.) Wet. (Points to himself.) Wet. "Bean," commands Jones, "we need to hold a private meeting." "Yes, Jones?" "Bean. THE MAN'S A SIMPLETON." "Piggliediggs, the guy's brilliant. He's the one of the council elders who created the codes." "Bean. How do I say this? THE GUY'S STANDING ON HIS HEAD. His HAIR walks for him." "Piggliedigs, that's the method he uses to get his brilliant ideas. So what about his hair? Those dreads are just piggliedigging! I honestly think you're misunderstanding him. Just listen to him for Pete sake's when he talks." "I AM, Bean. And all he says is WET." As if the entire universe breathlessly waits for Jones say '''WET at that exact pitch and note, it starts to rain. The rain pours and pours until the whole valley flooded, and immediately after purple sages, glorious yellow bells, and pungent creosote bushes dot the dunes in splendor. The fragrance of exotic mur fills the air, and the hidden frogs croak, mate, and pass away in mud. The withered-looking-Ghandi-man walks towards them, transforming into a younger and younger man--about twenty years drops away. He's clean shaven. He's walking on his legs instead of his hair, and on top of his utterly shiny bald head--he balances a bottle of water. "I liked him better with the crazy hair." Jones mutters. "Hello travelers, my name is Nandi. Yes? We need to sort out many things. Yes? Think of this step as the preparation stage. Yes? Jones, what did you see on the table? Yes?" Bean nudges Jones, "Go on, tell him what you told me." “I saw myself.” “What did you do in your box? Yes?” ' “I broke free.” Nandi exclaims, '“Extraordinary. It takes years to realize such an answer. You see, the chant ‘the sky is green’ has three levels. The first is the acceptance of its mythical content. The second is the realization that the phrase becomes empty through repetition. Then the third level is the understanding that things are interconnected and maybe the myth has a kernel of truth after all. After this level, monks reach a table in abstract meditation, but no one has ever reached the box on the table. The highest metaphor—no master has yet reached besides me. Yes?” ' Jones sputters, “It wasn’t a metaphor—I literally saw the damn table and music box.” '"Nevertheless, I have made sure you're not thirsty. I have watered you. Yes? Now it's time for you to grow." ' Nandi gently lifts the bottle off his head and hands it to Jones. "Oh another question before you go Nandi. What ARE piggliediggs besides the generic usage of the phrase?" Nandi smiles again--flashing his white teeth, and answers, '"Could the sky be blue?" ' "Hey, no fair!" whines Bean, "You answered a question with a question." Nandi mysteriously elucidates, '"Why not, whet?" and then a great mist enfolds him and lifts him into the sky, away into eternity. "Piggliediggs!" curses Bean. "We have another word for that expression in the real world my friend." says Jones taking a swig of the Nandi's water, "Holy Waters, its vodka." "Water into Wine. Sounds familiar." "You know Bean there's this guy back in the real world who did that, he loved everyone." "Affirmative. This (points to bottle) is definitely reciprocating love. " Bean and Jones trudge on through the desert fire. Will the vodka last them the journey? Chapter Five: Always Hide Your Heart While, the camp fire crackles in the wake of night's cheek, and the stabbing stars flicker and skate into constellations, Bean and Jones crouch low by the fire chatting away and turning the spit every now and then. The campfire roasts an oddly shaped pheasant, named gNana, a three eyed bird who naturally grows its own spectacles from stealing books and reading them from traveling merchants. Glops of yellow fat drips into the hissing flames. (The eyeballs taste like tofu and the naturally grown spectacles taste like spun sugar. Traditionally if a person can pop the third eye ball off without damaging the other two--Lady Luck is on your side. Jones is attempting to do this as he talks to Bean.) "You know Bean, I still haven't found my task." "Jones, let me tell you a story..." Bean starts narrating: "I lived in the year 3047 on the edge of the Milkyway near the ENAs stream. That's how you know you have arrived in our solar system, there's a ribbon from the pressure of the heliosphere 9 billion miles (15 billion kilometers) away from the Pisces constellation. What is known as 'Dreamjumping' in your world, is known as a 'wormhole station' in our solar system. We take Dreamjumping seriously--that is how we meet other forms of consciousness in one place--from the past present, present present, and present future, and all other alternative realities and possibilites. I met all sorts of people--some good, some bad. You usually sensed which ones to stay away from, usually the ones that promise you control, or power--they want to control your mind and suck your energy--until you are utterly dry. You will know them by their heavy mental energy. The good ones--such as Nandi have much wisdom to impart--when you see any piggliediggs--listen. '' I was considered the most advanced dreamjumper--and the whole population loved me. I was chosen as one of the top three applicants for the position of a Master. Oh, yes, I had it all. I chose Patience as my bride. We fell in love. She was the social butterfly, and I, the awkward nanobattery. Those were glorious, golden days. Then Zorek, the second applicant for the master's position, during a daily dreamjump--disconnected Patience from her body. He knew if he could hit my heart--I would falter in applying for the Master. Immediately, I sensed Patience's cry for help--I dreamjumped after her. A disconnect from a body means eternal wandering in dreamworld, or eternal damnation in our culture. I grabbed her soul, before it wandered too far, ripped out my heart with my fingers, and placed her-- there in the pulsing mass, so she may be connected to some living flesh, the requirement of our culture and spiritual rituals. Then, I thrusted my fist in my chest to stop the blood from flowing out too fast, I returned to our dimension. I made it on time for the exam but the master's test is a test of the pure heart. I did not have mine for examination, so I failed the exam, and Zorek was crowned the next Master. My heart was replaced by a mechanical pump, and Patience was kept alive inside my flesh--the only kind of flesh that would save her from damnation. I put my gushing heart in a special box, and hid it away. She is still beating in that sacred place under the twisted silver oak on the fourth moon of our rusty planet. Eventually time went by and I chose to disconnect myself from my body. When a being disconnects--a being must be reborn in order to enter dreamland. When the elders realized that I refused to return to my body after ten years--they ate me in order not to waste our species flesh. It is how our culture applied a control on our genetics--we eat the weaker or dead species--so others may not clone us. That is why I appear so young. I had to be reborn. So, it is good that the powers who send spys to watch us, only hear through the trees your incoherent blabbering, and not the true purpose of this journey. It is good we do not know the future, and can only hope. Whoever sent you on this journey is wise; you are the journey as it unfolds second by nanosecond. Whoever did this was truly divinely wise--to send a hero as the humble fool. Only those with clear purpose, and clear eye can truly see the gold beneath the clay. At this point, those who want you for power, do not know your heart, and cannot take it from you; whereas those who are pure, will recognize you and protect you. '''It is better this way.'" "Bean, I thought you were a little monk who played with worms." Jones whispers in an awed tone while turning the spit. "We show many different sides to different people in order to survive, and sometimes the simpler life is most appealing in a world of the gilded ornate. Certain virtues shine through when there is less sophistication." "I understand my purpose now." Hesitantly turns towards Bean. "Your not going to eat me are you?" "or rip your brain out?" "No, I’m twice born, remember? He nods his head: “Good." "Okay, now that I know you’re not going to eat me. What about my purpose? I cannot put it into words my purpose." "Do not try. Language is a flawed device. It tries to name and fails to capture the higher quintessence. Let it be free and alive. Let it grow on visions, and dreams. Let the sky be green. Let the grass be blue." "Bean, I'm going to jump back during my sleep. I won't know if I can jump here without ending up in different world. So, this is where we say goodbye." "May you always be one of the many fingers that hold the stars in their place." "G'night." A tranquilizer dart shoots past Bean and hits Jones in the neck. A white bee named Hummer shouts, "Get him. I shot him with Coffee. GO GO GO" Thousands of bee's rush towards Jones and Bean like a giant cloud of sheep. A net falls on top of the two companions, and they are quickly imprisoned. Chapter Six: Your Task begins A drop of water drips down the stalactite edge and leaves a hieroglyphic trail. Another water droplet slides to the tip of the stalactite, and reflects the surrounding cavern, the thousands of white bees, and the two prisoners in chains. The bees throw Bean into a locked box, and turn the lock two times round, and then they take Jones into another section of the cavern and imprison him. Inside the box Bean finds two fortune cookies. Bean opens the first fortune cookie, and it reads, "Your fortune is in the next cookie." Bean opens the next cookie and it reads, "Ignore the previous cookie." Bean eats the pieces of the broken cookies in despair. While crying Bean bumps his head into the lid of his box. The lid opens. Bean in surprise walks out of his box. His box was never locked to begin with; he only believed it was locked. Bean hops out of his prison box, and slinks away in the to shadows hoping none of the guards notice him. "Who goes there, I have a stinger and it kills without mercy." says Nairic. "It is Bean." "Bean? Like the food with rice and milk?" "No, Bean the Monk." "Bean, tales of your journey has gone far. The Northern government commands us to capture you. It is no fault of the bee folk, ya hear? We are honored by the presence of the mythical hero, and the mythical monk. But orders are order, and all we do is take orders. It is the social order." "Is there anyway I can pay for our escape and your silence then if you have no interest vested in our capture?" "Well, there is one way, but us bee's are simple folk, dare not ask the favor of someone so great as yourself--it is to much to ask." "Ask, and it shall be done. I swear in oath on the box of my beloved heart, Patience." "You may very well regret what you have sworn, but very well...here is the plan." Nairic somberly replies and quietly mutters to Bean the secret plan. Meanwhile Jones is thrown into a pitch black jail cell. Inside the pregnant stillness of the jail, a gnarly voice echoes, “Who’s there?” “Jones.” “Jones? Did they send you to feed me or to entertain me, then feed me? I don’t normally play with my food, but I could make an exception for you.” “Who are you?” “I am the Sphinx. My name is Dolores.” “What do you want?” “I want something fun to eat, entertain me, and you buy seconds to live. Answer the question: Who is table?” Jones shrugs. “A Table is a table. It’s made of wood. You know kind of flat on top with four legs, sometimes three legs, sometime’s two, maybe even one leg if well designed.” “Don’t play foolish with me, boy. Who is table?” “Who do you think table is, Dolores?” “Table is a myth about some crazy maximum. Supposedly, when there exists a reality that the sky could be blue, and the grass could be green—a hero will arrive and give back the mythical color red. So, give me the color red this instant!” Shrieks the Sphinx. “How do you know I’m the hero?” says Jones dodging the demand. Dolores clicks a button and a voice record with Bean's voice: Whoever did this was truly divinely wise--to send a hero as the humble fool. “Do you deny the master monk told you this?” The Sphinx riddles. “Bean isn’t a master monk. Bean is a child.” Replies Jones. “Anyone who unlocks the emerald puzzle in the underground monastery is immediately raised to master status. Do you deny this piggliedigg's wisdom?” demands the Sphinx. “I do not know where to find the mythical Red.” “Answer me Hero, or I will mash your bones. Where did you hide the mythical Red?” “Answer me Sphinx, how can I give you red, if you believe it myth?" "This guy is slick, Dolores. We need to change tactics. Swallow him, and I’ll talk to him in your stomach." Agent X whispers into Dolores’s headphone through the wireless microphone. "Roger, that sir." "Make sure what I say to him is stricken off the record. Is that clear?" "Crystal, sir." The Sphinx’s raises her paws toward Jones and lashes her tail from side to side. "Enough chatting. Acquiesce to the fact I'm hungry." She pounces. Chapter Seven S.P.H.I.N.X.: Sincerely.Please.Hello.Inkan.Nada.Xavier. The Sphinx pounces on Jones and melts right through him. Jones looks back and sees a droll replica of himself torn apart by the Sphinx. "What the...?" He pinches himself to make sure he's still alive, and shuffles forward. The entire jail cell melts away. All around him, white, tiled walls blithely lit by bulbous crystals start to spin in a diamond formation creating and recreating hallways in seconds. "Walk forward, Jones." Tinkles an ethereal voice. At the end of a long white crystal hallway is a room filled with stairs. They tread sideways, upside down, long ways, down-ways, and round-ways--always in constant motion; as if the room and hallways were a gigantic pulsating worm changing it mind about how it wants to be. Jones marches down the ever changing hallway; his footstep clicks in a sharp tick tick tick clockwork formation. Each tick triggers the stairs and halls to stop writhing in constant motion, until eventually when Jones reached the stairway room; everything haults to a standstill. The entire hallway from a bird's eye view looks like a giant snowflake with a jelly blob at the center filled with electric blue sparks quivering slightly; and its translucent membrane and thick veins slightly pulsating. "Walk forward Jones." Tinkles merrily the same voice again in encouragement. Mesmerized Jones walks into the jelly mass, and feels the membrane suck against his skin like rubber. "Welcome to the center of intelligence or otherwise known as the 'Stomach'." Tinkles another placid voice. "Door open." Commands the tinkling voice, and a rusty voice responds, "Pass code needed." "Sincerely. Please. Hello. Inkan. Nada. Xavier." ''"Voice verification in process." ''a rusty voice responds. The blanche, rubber mass presses against Jones in all directions squeezing him, and then the membrane quickly opens into another space. Jones jaw drops. A blanched, sheen room contains a tower that seemingly stretches up endlessly into the sky. Jones reads the cornerstone of the tower out loud, "Tower of Babel." The curious thing about the tower is that it isn't shaped like a true "tower." It adheres more to a tower principle. The supposed 'bricks' of the tower are made out of pictures frames of all sorts of sizes, and colors. The "bricks" free float in the air spinning and turning at furious odd angles, growing together or splitting apart in order to keep the tower "shape" or priniciple. "How do you like S.P.H.I.N.X. or sphinx?" ''asks a gruff voice. "Amazing!" comments Jones. ''"We can do much with S.P.H.I.N.X. We created a genetic facsimile of you-- to rip apart and kill. It is needed in order to protect your status from the Southern government. We produce many functions and twists in reality in order to restore and protect our subjects or figments of the imagination. '' The S.P.H.I.N.X also performs many tasks such as secretarial work with a holographic projection named '''Dumb.Oracle.Loud.Oracle.Read.Elephant.Sith.' or otherwise known as Dolores--made up from parts of Hello and Inkan, and Nada." "Who are you?" asks Jones in amazement. "I'm the head agent in this mind. So I'm labeled X. as in Xavier but my alias is Roger. My other half is Nada. We all pair up into three separate entities: Sincerely/Please, Hello/Inkan, Nada/Xavier." "So, you are three personalities in one mind?" "In one stomach, technically. We digest information, and send programs out to fix glitches inside the dream jumping system, and we keep track of sleepers. There are two political systems who are allowed to do this: the brain and the stomach. We won elections this year. Technically, we are three distinct entities, but together we make the Sphinx--the higher stomach entity. We won out against the brain because we actually digest concepts and apply them realistically. The brain government plays with abstractions, but never applies them. We are known as the Northern government, and they are known as the Southern government. Our workers are white bee's if you haven't noticed." "So, why don't you manifest in your holographic form? I don't trust things told to me by people I can't see." Each screen on the tower flashed quickly computing many vibrant colors and Agent X steps out of one of the frames. Then he points to the flashing scenes in each frame and explains, "Time doesn't matter here. Everything unravels and collapses in this Dreamworld. Thus we needed a way to regulate the consciousness traveling in and out.' Sincerely, Please, and Hello''' take care of the day shifts, and Inkan and Nada take care of the night shifts. If you don't remember the first voice you heard in Dreamworld (we record everything)--that was Sincerely--..."'' Agent X presses a white button and plays a chiding voice named Sincerely: " 'Okay everyone, there's a layover in America--turn the clocks back one hour. Indonesia, India, Algeria, Egypt prepare to jump back in the countdown of 10, 9, 8, 7, 6...' Instantly, one of the frames on the tower replays an old, Indonesian grocer named Ramalen who chops vagabond hands off for pilfering apples trotting happily back from a sunny dream vacation and prepares to plunge back." Agent X presses another button, and a drink appears in his hand. He stirs the straw in the water and sips. "So have you figured out the letter yet Jones? This stomach (pointing to tower) is mighty curious about your reactions." "What is my task?" Jones asks, "I've never been able to figure it out." "That the kicker, Jones. The Table decided to give you freewill in this world and we don't know why. Every person who dreamjumps into Dreamworld is obsessed with their little manias. They have no control over what they do because their dark desires, secrets, and insecurities consume them. Those hidden mania's have face in this world. No one has ever tamed and rode their Nightmare before. To create your own task is a very special thing. It's just not how things usually work." "Who's table?" Agent X gives Jones a curious look and responds warmly, "My, my aren’t we full of questions today? Yes, it is the question of all questions; the king of kings; the question that begs the answer. Who is table " '' '''Chapter 8: Table' (The end is only the beginning.) "Something’s are better shown, than explained." Agent X motions with his hands, as he walks towards the Tower of Babel. "Step inside the tower." Jones steps inside the tower's entrance frame. After he steps through the frame; it shape shifts into another frame--erasing the entrance he just walked through. "Look up." Jones looks up and sees a ceiling made of a giant mirror surrounded with walls of ornate, baroque decor. The rather strange mirror seemed fluid, and the liquid floated defying gravity--upside down, the surface steaming slightly in ripples, while strange noises and objects drop from it. A golden finch drops from the misty interior, Agent X clicks a button, and robotic arm strikes out and snags the finch in a cage. "This is table." Agent X whispers in a majestic tone. "I don't understand. I still don't understand." Jones pleads --feeling a lot like the caged finch. "Table, my strange traveler, is a level, and now for you, it's the next level." "Huh?" "It is the same world as this one, but the next step. It has an extra code; it is the next game." "This has all been....a game?" says Jones in shock. "Yes, you have passed the first level, it has been a zero sum game, but you have passed, and you are chosen to go to table. Do you accept the responsibility to advance to the next level?" "I need time to think about this choice. Do I get to return to my world if I dream jump into the next level?" "Yes, but you will never be fully there. Dreams in table will intrude on reality and force you back." "You mean I will literally live my dreams?" "Yes." "What happens in a table?" "You will go through the same ordeals, but you will be given a different set of codes. This time the color red will come into play. We do know that some lose their sanity there." "I thought the color red is a myth?" "Myths are an over exaggerated idea of what the true form of an object is from history. If you take apart the magical aspect of the mythical idea-- you realize the individual parts are derived from some part of reality." I must quickly send you into the next table before the coup happens. We have no time." "Coup?" "Coup d’état. The Southern intelligence has planned a revolt against us, and they will be running the next era. They think its "revolutionary" to overthrow us. But it actually has always been this way for centuries, and it's known as the balance of powers. The brain overtakes the stomach; then the stomach overtakes the brain. Then one day the worker bees shall overthrow both entities. We only know this because we have the Tower of Babel as our guide for knowledge; it collects all wise men's dreams. When they have control of the Tower of Babel--the Southern government shall know the truth as well--and have the ability to discern from myth. Right now the Southern government and the worker bee's think the Tower of Babel is myth, this room is a myth, and you are myth. Precisely from this moment, 11 min, and 11 seconds....the Southern government will have manipulated the workers into a full blown revolt using the mythical hero's death as the catalyst." "But I'm not mythical." "To them you are. You were their only hope for redemption....and now you are dead." "I'm not dead." "We know, but they don't. We holographic-ally cloned you, and projected the mental image of you dying in front of the workers." "....Er?" "It was necessary for your protection." "Why?" "Because you are the first of your kind to break from slumber. You have crawled from the depth of the cave, and penetrated past the shadows of illusion. For others the shadows are real, for you the shadows are a metaphor as something to see past." " I don't need 11 min. Hell, I don't need 11 seconds. I know right now. I do not want to go into another table." Jones sputters. Agent X sighs and responds, "Many people want to be in your position right now. They want to be you-- advancing. Many people, who want to advance, have failed the dream world many times. But they still hope to gain advantage. They go in circles, ridden by their Night Mare, instead of riding the Night Mare. Many are called, few are chosen. And you are chosen." Jones looks up at agent X and quietly responds, "I have two kids at home, but I can barely visit them in the real world because of the divorce. All my life I have been disconnected from reality. I have never truly been there for them. I want to be there for them after going through all this. I want to walk the dog. I want to take Julie out to buy Barbies, and little Annie out to the lollipop store. I want to be the dad I never could be. I want to see my sky, my grass, and their true colors. I want to give that old bum Joe some quarters so he can buy beer on Sundays. I want to make a difference in this world, instead of the next one. To give up my hold on reality for table, would be to give up my humanity. This game that you speak of that humanity has not realized till now--will force cut throat competition to reach table, force everyone to follow the codes in a mundane way--instead of finding their own interpretation, and make every consciousness dull and bleak--with no imagination. And what happens after I complete this table? There must be other tables above that table--going on endlessly? Can the weary soul ever sleep truly?" "Well, we could take care of child support for you. And as for the next world, there will be another central intelligence unit you talk to I suppose...but we have never ventured into the question of how many tables there are. We just know there is one table from the evidence we find of that dimension-the red feathers, leaves, and yellow finches that happen upon us from that liquid ceiling mirror. Maybe the sky is red, and the grass is yellow in that world...we can only hypothesize with no experimental foundation." "So, this game may be ongoing. It may go on forever. From this advance in table, there may be another, and another, and then I lose my humanity through insanity of detachment. I may make a difference in the next world, but I will never be able to make a difference in the world I came from. I will go back, but never truly find my world. My world will be a metaphor, and the metaphor of table will be the reality that I wander in--unable to return. I do not think I am ready for such a change." "Many will try after you to reach this opportune moment, this destination." "And let them. I refuse to give up my humanity." Agent X looks quizzically at Jones and says, "What is humanity? How can you define it? What makes it so special that it can't be imitated or replicated? We created another you--to kill--in order to protect." "Humanity is universal. Humanity is a multitude of realizations that result in who we are. We are, but we don't know we are--until we realize. And I have realized that if I go any further--I will be stripped of my humanity in this consciousness. I wish to return to my life, and not go to table. "You do realize that Bean will take your place, if you don't want to go?" "I thought only masters could ascend to table, why do I get first choice?" Agent X chuckles. "If you don't remember, you were the one who poked the hole in the ceiling first, and then Bean pulled you down. It was a collaborative effort--but one that proved to the underworld dimension that the sky is truly green. Anyone who does this immediately ascends to the status of a master. You are one master level higher than Bean for simply being at the right place at the right time, and Bean is a master for pulling your through into his dimension. Which is ironic--he gained his purity of heart for mistaking you for a worm. You just happened to find a weak spot in that dimension and Fortuna was on your side." Though as a rule, the first choice ascended master who refuses to advance is allowed one peek into the next table. Quickly, put your head through the mirror to fulfill this clause in the code book. Hurry! We have 7 min left before the revolution advances past our security and overwhelm the sphinx..." In the distance Jones could hear the smashing of doors and windows, and the shouts of many worker bee's ripping apart the innards of the stomach... Jones climbs to the side of the walls of the Tower of Babel. Poking his head through the substance in the ceiling, the liquid mirror curls around his head like misty, hissing stars. As he takes his final look---his eyes open wide, and he mutters, "I don't exist..." The Last Chapter "I don't exist." '' Mutters Jones as he looks through the portal to the other dimension, '"I am a copy. It was all an illusion. I don't exist."' An ethereal voice tinkles, "But you are the first of your kind to be original and leap forward, and in that respect, you are not a copy." Jones: "I do not exist." The ethereal voice responds sympathetically, "You are a copy, and you are lost in the sea of other copies; therefore, you do not exist. I understand your logic." Jones: "How do I exist?" "Stop copying." Jones: "But I still won't exist." "Break off the edge." Jones: "People will copy me." "Leap off, and jump into space so far that copies can not touch you. Einstein did such. People in my time period do not fully understand his mindset, he sailed far into the land of hissing stars. Today, in our time period, we realize that Einsteins estimations are beyond where we thought it would go in the past. If you do not make the jump, another form of yourself, will do it for you and go to the next table." the voice replies. (Long pause) Jones: "Who are you?" "I am table." Jones: "What makes me exist? When I clearly don't. I am a copy. I am the genetic copy. I am the mental copy. I am the societal copy. The normative copy. I do not exist. Maybe I should make "I" lowercase. Jones stops for a short moment, and curiously asks again, '''Are you a copy?"' Ignoring the question the author replies, "You exist by your leaps." Jones: "But then I don't exist again after I leap." "But you will be remembered, and that in a way is an individual immortality." Jones: "I will live in myth, and generations in the future will doubt my existence." "That is the price you pay for being brilliant. They will doubt your sanity." Jones: "What makes my intelligence copy different from other copies?" "You tune in. You harness." Jones: "Huh...come again?" "In reality--that is your walking state---you are not awake. You are truly awake in the dream world, but fate has it that your species does not portal jump like the monk species, but they treat the dream world as myth--a playground for children. When in actuality--this is where all your brilliant scientists and sensitive’s receive their leaps forward--from this world. That is why those who have the heart of a child--can reach this place. They are the holy fool--ready to receive the divine forms--with no pretension of their greatness. Greatness is channeled from something other...not yourself. The difference between the illumination of the brilliant, and the flicker of intelligence--is the ability to tap into the realm of other. You flow with the higher stream of consciousness and you ask the holy divine spirit or waves of another realm to guide your sailing. When you sail on this wave--let go. Let go of the copy. You do not need to remember the copy. The copy was never you. You do not exist. When you leap out pass the boundary--You remember yourself before birth. The real you. The you, you have never met." Jones: "So, I am meeting myself." "No, you are meeting an abstract character, what an intellectual might call the 'author.'" Jones: "I am a story?" "We are all stories inside a bigger story. But this story is different because it is no longer a copy of other stories. Given: this story,--other's may copy, but they can't deny that this is the first story, and the last chapter." Jones: "What is my author's name?" "You do not need to know. Because my name is a copy. Through you--I no longer exist as a copy." Jones: "I wish I chose to leap through into the next table--in order to exist." "If you leap through, you will not meet me again." Jones: "Why not?" "This portal is in constant motion. The universe is in constant flux. You will be some place different the next time you jump through. It is by chance or fortune that you happen to break the fourth wall, and talk to the person who tapped into your existence--and manipulated your essence with their imagination." Jones: "I need to go back to my world--in order to keep sane." "What year are you from...so I know where to send you back to?" Jones: "I'm from the year 1921..." "Ah, give the Einstein my regards. He is one of those who channel the higher waves of consciousness." Jones: "Who?" "Einstein. He wins the Nobel Peace Prize that year." Jones: "That hasn't happened yet. He can't do things like that... he's an average brilliant. There's better out there." "Really now? Who considers him average?" Jones: "It's an estimate really." "It will happen. The estimation is off. I bet the person who estimated his ability does not even understand his concepts." Jones: "What makes Einstein so special?" Jones whines in jealousy "He tunes. You can exist in your world--by channeling the other world. Find the boundary of your societies understanding--and then leap off. Something will catch you--and you will surf on a wave of originality." Jones: "Tune in?" "Face your nightmare. In reality--when we copy--we do not exist. When we reach the awakened state--we do not exist--because we channel the same energy field. But which one is it better to be? A hollow husk or a unique expression of something new in your own pattern? Which one is it better to be? An insignificant point in a plethora of points--to the point of stale energy, or a wave riding the distance of the channeled rive r--where the flow of conscious is dynamic and filled with action? Often it is a matter of taste." Jones: "Bean, will jump then after me?" "Yes, and he will be considered insane by his monk brothers who have never seen the green sky. They know the recitation, but they do not know the truth." Jones: "Is that the price--insanity and rejection?" "No, that is their loss." Jones: "But what about me?" "Your story ends here, and I will send you back to make the difference in your time period." Jones: "You do realize this game will provide ruthless competition--no one will have their own interpretation." The Author laughs. "It is already a ruthless competition among copies. Who can make the most perfect copy? Someway humanity will find a way to compete. And when somebody breaks the copy...they will copy the break. Copies can not channel the night mare. They are like ticks waiting to ride--unable to tune themselves." Jones: "You do see my point though about the loss of imagination and competition?" "Yes. In the beginning we had myths about the moon, stars, and sun. Then in pursuit of these myths--we found new knowledge in order to explain the order. And we discarded the myths. Soon, humanity will realize there was some truth in these myths. Someday, We shall realize these myths as reality. Mermaids are submarine tanks, and airplanes are the flying nymphs. The metal immortals. Humanity is always in need of dreams--to push the boundaries of knowledge. When we discard these dreams for pure reality--the advance of science and art halts abruptly. Bring back the myth--and humanity has a hissing star to chase and run after. We must advance to the next table, but we still must keep in our pockets the seeds of myths as a child would hoard marbles." Jones: "So, I can still reach table if I don't jump into the next table?" "Yes. You will go in dreams. You will see the other world in glimpses. If you do not use your full potential, another copy of you will be made--and set into motion to complete the same task. Jones: "Wait? If I do not use my potential I will be copied?" "Yes and no. You are unique, and the first. But if you waste your gifts --we must save such a treasured mind by copying it. That is why most people do not exist. So it is your free will to use your gifts, and it is our free will to save the potential if the mind is not used efficiently. Your talents are much needed as a pivotal point in the future. Right now you are a copy because you have absorbed what was fed to you. But you truly desire to break free. Forget yourself. That is how you find yourself. When your forget yourself, you forget your copy." Jones asks again in hesitation, "Will you protect Bean in his adventure and journey?" "I can not promise such. Life is uncertain. Life is in constant flux with all its anomalies. Jones: "Promise me you will give Bean his own story." "That is Bean's choice if he wishes to continue...just as you had your choice." Jones: "Freewill huh? Tricky stuff." "No, we just respond to what you do and what you ask. Never think your desires are not heard." Jones: "Be it good or bad?" "We can't control that. Because table loves its copies. Enough to hide the fact it exists. It doesn't want to prove or disprove he exists. Freewill. If the odds were in its favor--the copies wouldn't have freewill now would they? The game would be too obvious." Jones: "Is table God?" "No. But then again it may as well be. Even I am not so sure who or what truly table is." Jones: "Who is table?" "Not the God you think that exists. Maybe in a sense, it is something that we can not imagine. Table is beyond the boundaries of words, thought, and imagination." The conversation gets too heavy for Jones and he changes the subject, "There may be a copy who breaks past Einstein." "Not unless they ride their Night mare. No one that I have seen-- has leaped off the edge, and then leaped off again and again--until future generations still have a hard time understanding. That is true genius. That is true originality. Some create tools for the future minds to use and build roads. Some build roads so that future minds may walk easier. Some scale mountains, so roads may be built. You can copy or break. I've never seen one mind such as his break the bonds of thought--until a literal schism changed the mentality of science in one blow." replies the author. of Einstein’s theory in action today: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Einstein_ring Jones: "Thank you for talking to me, I always wondered about table. I am fading away now because I am waking up in my world." "May you always be one of many fingers holding the stars in their place." Jones: "May you always ride your nightmare, and never let it ride you." (They chuckle together.) "That's the idea...now go back into your idea or world." The sun rises as an angry red eye with tissue clouds wreathed around. Jones wakes up. He puts on his teal jacket. Brushes his teeth 42 times. Combs his hair, wipes behind his ears, and shaves. He then shines his shoes. Then he drives to work. His motions are mechanical, and repetitive, and had been this way for the past 45 years, everyday. He buys a newspaper from a small factory boy--gives him a tip. The headline of the New York Time screams, "Einstein wins the Nobel Peace Prize." Spilling his coffee he mutters, "Holy shit." And silently thinks to himself, "No one can know. I'll be thrown in the loony." He puts the newspaper in his back pocket, and changes the direction of his normal routine --he walks into the lollipop store named "Piggliediggs". An attractive brunette asks him at the cash register, "For anyone special, Sir?" He smiles. A smile that wrapped bitter and sweet into one word. His eyes sharply trace the two identical lollipops petal swirls. "For my daughters." "Is it their birthday?" Jones replies, "Just because they exist.. Just because they are beautiful they will live here on this level forever. Just because in all else everywhere there has never been another:The music never stopped and when you've had enough I'll catch you, I'll catch you in the name of love. Clay flowers on a clay bed One’s a rose and can’t be fed. I've got my radio on--it's playing every love song. I've got my diary--it's writing every heart break. This is the nerdy song dedicated to all that went wrong. How was your day? I’m getting good grades. Let’s break the rules And gather all the mushroom jewels And play life like a video game It’s the same, it’s the same. Chorus: Give me a code with you I’ll smoke In the sun and run away by the highway. In a society that has destroyed all adventure, the only adventure left is to destroy that society. An empty city nightmares With lonely, lonely squares And I’m walking like a turtle Just looking for a circle. I see your heart Shining in the dark Like a nightlight in the park A night sky filled with fireflies. This guitar needs a superstar. Somehow we must be apart but How many stories are in our hearts. Chorus: Give me a code with you I’ll smoke In the sun and run away by the highway. In a society that has destroyed all adventure, the only adventure left is to destroy that society. You feel you've got someplace to go but the cars all go somewhere slow but it's not the destination in the plan so why don't you just take my hand. You say you can't be defined oh what shall we do love of mine? Somehow you've gotta find a way to give yourself some space. Chorus: Give me a code with you I’ll smoke In the sun and run away by the highway. In a society that has destroyed all adventure, the only adventure left is to destroy that society. Song Title: I Dreamt of You Gold Gondala Moisture Pop Trick Gold Gondala Moisture Pop Trick Supersonic ink core losing amour amour Strange machine memorize our consciousness And outlines a city I pencil in a moon Goddess I turn sideways and pavement folds into a dandelion Love is space between the lyrics. Love is the boom behind the rocket. Chasing paperklips cause cupid is blind Finding a living a idea inside a stone butterfly Am I android dreaming I’m human? Am I human dreaming I’m android? Twinkle twinkle little kiss I’m shining like a starfish Time doesn’t really exist Like this audio klip. Earth can you hear me? I’m the universe. Whatcha got partying on me? 3x I don’t remember the words but the words remember me. So follow your heart. 2x Yeah it was square blue We are the shadow zoo I’ve swallowed the sun And you are the one You are the spy that I’ve captured with my eyes. I’ve dreamt of you You are my deleted superstar. Lovely lovely come ride my spaceship forever. Caress the star laser Where is the sky? Where is the sky?